The morning at Frostveil Port was colder than usual. Mist rolled off the sea like ghostly fingers, curling over the dark water and swallowing the wharves in white. Dockworkers huddled near the lantern posts, their breath forming small clouds as they moved crates stamped with the seal of the Southern Continent. The cargo was bound for the Northern capital — mostly spices, silks, and holy artifacts from St. Eldred's Church.
But among them, hidden deep within a reinforced chest, lay something else. Something forbidden.
At dawn, the port came alive with the usual hum of trade — merchants shouting, gulls crying, carts creaking over the frost-covered wood. Yet beneath it all, a strange tension hung in the air, as if the sea itself knew what was coming.
A man in a long gray coat — one of the emissaries from the Church — adjusted his gloves and barked orders to the crew. His breath trembled slightly. "Handle the relics with care," he said, voice sharp. "If even one is scratched, we'll have to answer to the Cardinal himself."
The sailors nodded, unaware that none of them would see the sunset.
A boy hauling barrels nearby paused, catching sight of the silver insignia on the crates. He tilted his head. "Those ain't the usual Church shipments," he muttered. "Why're they sealed like weapon crates?"
He'd never get an answer.
Moments later, the sky cracked open.
The explosion tore through Frostveil Port like the roar of a dragon — heat and light and force all in one. The trade ship carrying the emissaries went up in a ball of crimson fire, scattering molten wood and steel across the docks. A shockwave followed, hurling men and goods into the sea. The mist turned red.
When the smoke settled, Frostveil was gone — only charred timbers remained, jutting from the water like blackened bones.
And that was the beginning of the Frostveil Incident.
The news reached the Northern Capital by nightfall.
Noah sat in the Chrome Hearts base, the light of a single lamp cutting across his face. He read the headline again and again:
> "SOUTHERN TRADE SHIP DESTROYED — NORTH SUSPECTED OF ATTACK."
The image below the headline showed the wreckage at Frostveil — scorched water, floating debris, and the faint remnants of the Church's flag.
"Frostveil…" he muttered under his breath. "That was one of ours."
Chrome Hearts had used that port countless times — not for smuggling contraband, but for discreet transport of supplies and information. It was neutral ground. Whoever struck there had known that.
Noah set the paper down and leaned back, eyes narrowing. His thoughts moved like clockwork — analyzing, dissecting, replaying every detail.
"The South blames the North," he murmured. "And the North denies it."
He glanced at the diagrams scattered on his desk — sketches of machinery, symbols, fragments of blueprints he'd once seen in another life. His hands stilled when he spotted one particular design: a compact explosive core with a spiral chamber inside.
He remembered that pattern.
A cold realization struck him like a knife.
Or rather, the design of someone like him.
Far away, in the Central Senate, heated voices filled the grand marble chamber.
"—The North must be held accountable!" shouted one senator, slamming his fist on the table. "They've been testing weapons near Frostveil for months!"
"That's speculation!" another barked. "You'd trust Southern propaganda over fact?"
"The relics aboard that ship were for peaceful study!"
"Peaceful?" sneered a third. "Then why did the cargo manifest list restricted materials?"
The debate spiraled into chaos — voices overlapping, accusations flying. In the shadows of the chamber, whispers passed between aides and scribes.
But among the senators, one man remained silent: Lord Bluerose, patriarch of the house Noah served under.
He watched the exchange with cool detachment, gloved hands folded before him. Only when the shouting reached its peak did he finally speak.
"If Frostveil was truly an act of aggression," he said, voice calm but cutting through the din like a blade, "then the question remains — who benefits?"
"Not the North," he continued. "They rely on that port for trade and supply. Not the South, unless they wish to martyr themselves. So who gains from chaos?"
His eyes swept over the chamber. "Perhaps someone who profits from conflict."
A murmur spread. The senators exchanged uneasy glances.
Somewhere beyond those walls, a certain masked figure smiled bitterly at the irony.
Back in the North, Chrome Hearts gathered in the war room — a dim, metallic chamber filled with flickering holographic maps.
Noah stood before them, coat draped over his shoulders, the same newspaper lying on the table.
"The South's calling this a declaration," one of his lieutenants said. "And the Central Senate's caught in the middle. They'll have to pick a side soon."
Another leaned forward. "The port was ours, Boss. People are saying we triggered the explosion."
Noah's expression darkened. "We didn't."
"Then who did?" The source of this content ɪs 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡✶𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚✶𝙣𝙚𝙩
He looked down at the schematics again — the unfamiliar alloy, the spiral ignition core, the faint etching patterns only he could recognize. His chest tightened.
"The device used in Frostveil…" he said slowly, "isn't something anyone in this world could build."
He hesitated — just a fraction. The words hung at the edge of his tongue, dangerous and heavy.
"It's… advanced," he said instead. "Beyond what the North, South, or Central can truth.."
Then he spoke to himself.
'Whoever designed it bears knowledge that doesn't belong here..."
His gaze hardened as he spoke.
"Someone's pulling the strings..."
He didn't explain further.
The others exchanged uncertain glances, whispering theories.
But Noah turned away, keeping his thoughts buried.
No one could know what he truly meant.
Only he understood the truth that the bomb's design mirrored technology from a world that shouldn't exist here.
Later that night, Frostveil's ruins still smoldered. The charred hull of the trade ship bobbed weakly in the icy tide, glowing faintly under the moonlight. A squad of Northern investigators combed the site, retrieving fragments of metal and burned insignias.
Among them, one officer crouched to examine a small, twisted cylinder half-buried in ash. He turned it over, eyes narrowing.
In the Bluerose Estate, Noah couldn't sleep. He sat alone, staring at the ceiling, the echoes of the explosion replaying in his head.
Everything was connected.
The relic. The explosion. The blame.
And somewhere behind it all… a hand guiding the chaos.
He stood, pulling on his coat.
"I tried to stay out of it..."
He looked at the burning map on his desk — lines of power, trade, and influence snaking across the continents.
The North, Central, and South all on the brink.
"…now my name's in it, whether I like it or not."